


Working Relationship in Progress

by phoenixflight



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Night Watch, Everyone is Bisexual, Multi, Time Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension, terrible professional boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 18:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: Thirty years ago, Sam Vimes made a massive mistake. But time is tricky about catching up to you, and he has to face the consequences back in his own time. He can't avoid the Patrician forever.





	Working Relationship in Progress

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pseudopolis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/58721) by [Resonant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resonant/pseuds/Resonant). 



> This story is a direct sequel to Resonant's amazing Pseudopolis, which imagines a missing scene from Night Watch. (It won't make that much sense without reading those first.) That fic grabbed me by the brain years ago, and never let go. I finally wrote what I always wanted to read - what comes next.

It is a well known principle of policing, and one of Vimes’ most treasured adages, that everyone has a guilty conscience. However, he had never experienced this truth quite so viscerally and personally as when Havelock Vetinari materialized out of the shadows in the Cemetery of Small Gods.

Standing over Carcer’s prone body, Vimes lifted his head, the beast roaring in his ears, and saw the Patrician watching him. In a flash of lurid recollection, he saw Vetinari’s head thrown back, pale throat exposed, saw those graceful hands clutching at the sheets, remembered short nails digging into his back, saw in his memory that mouth, red and bitten, open on a moan.  _ Please _ . 

Vimes wished fervently that he could turn back time again, or, failing that, crawl into Reg’s convenient coffin and never come out. The beast whimpered and put its tail between its legs, and other parts of Vimes, also between his legs, which hadn't gotten the message about mortal terror and crushing shame, were taking an interest.

Vetinari’s face showed nothing. In the intervening years he had perfected the inscrutable calm which he had lacked three decades ago. And damn it all, Vimes had created a life where running away was no longer a solution. So he bluffed and shouted his way through the interaction, drawing on the safe, familiar rage which Vetinari’s calm insolence triggered, firmly ignoring the edge of arousal coloring the emotion. They spoke about the watch, about Carcer, and the trial. 

And when Vetinari said, “...perhaps after that…” Vimes snapped, “I am going home to be with my family.” Did he see a flash of something in the patricians eyes? No, surely not. Had he imagined it? That thought was almost worse. 

 

He went to Carcer’s trial, in the gray dawn, where he testified on the deaths of three watchmen, managing not to make eye contact with Vetinari at any point, and then to the hanging, in the bright noon. That was as it should be, a cockroach like Carcer being stamped out in the light of day. It was good. It was right. 

He had wanted to bring Young Sam, to show him what justice and cleanliness were, but Sybil and Dr. Lawn both had expressed in no uncertain terms that he was too young. So instead, he went home, took off his second best dress armor - the first not having recovered from its adventure in time - and crawled into bed beside his wife, with his son in a cradle by the bed. And when Young Sam cried, he roused himself, picked him up, the most fragile thing he had ever held, and passed him to Sybil. Then he lay down beside his wife, with one hand on Sam’s back while he nursed, and the other curled around Sybil’s arm, his face buried in the warm, clean smell of her hair. He slept. 

 

Crime was down. A warm spell had hit the city, unseasonable for early June, and criminals stay indoors in the heat as much as anyone else. The watch was running smoothly under Captain Carrot and the sergeants. Of course, Vimes came round every day to check on things, but he often found himself arriving home before tea.* 

[ *The Agatean Empire, XXXX and a few other foreign and therefore misguided places had something called Serenity Leave, intended to give peace of mind to new parents. Ankh Morpork had never gotten on with that sort of thing, reckoning that wealthy people already had all the serenity they needed, and poor people had no business having children, or, if they did, certainly didn’t deserve help. ]

So with one thing and another, it didn’t make sense for Vimes to give the weekly report to Vetinari. Carrot went instead. And the next week. And then the week after. 

A month after Young Sam was born, Vimes was back to working full days at the watchhouse, although he turned home religiously at 6 o'clock. A particularly nasty domestic dispute had ended with a small fire in Lobbin Clout. Fast work by the golem brigade had prevented it spreading, but Vimes had a diminutive woman in the cells with two black eyes, and in a different cell, quite an unpleasant sort of man currently covered in bandages where Igor had treated all the burns. There was the usual unlicensed thievery, a waterway dispute involving the river patrol crew, and and complaint from an upstanding citizen with two ruptured ear drums, that he had been peacefully minding his own business outside a House of Good Repute, when he was inexplicably attacked by two old women in black.  

Vimes rubbed his forehead and looked up at Angua, who had delivered the report. “Seriously?”

“A newcomer to the city, sir,” Angua said, expressionless. “I believe he has also filed a complaint at the palace.”  

“Oh ye gods.” 

“Yessir.” She really was getting good at that face. 

“I mean, technically if one of the girls has a problem they should call the watch, but everyone knows…” he trailed off. “Ok ok, I’ve got it. Sounds like mistaken identity to me.”

“Sir?”

“He mistook himself for someone minding his own business.” 

“Yessir.” And now there was just a hint of a smile on Sergeant Angua’s face. “Very good. You can tell the Patrician at the watch committee meeting tomorrow.” 

“Watch committee,” Vimes said, hiding a burst of panic. “But I thought Carrot…”

“Special day off tomorrow, sir, remember? For both of us. Underground Music Festival.”  She saw his blank face and prompted, “Dwarvish folk music gathering? He did ask six months in advance,” she added. 

“Right, right, should have remembered.” A thought rose through the gentle horror. “It’s not music with rocks in, is it?”

“No sir, music about rocks I believe.” 

“Right, good. Well, uh. Enjoy yourselves. And I will...go...to the… watch. Committee.”

“Everything alright sir?”

She could smell fear, couldn't she? But one of his favorite traits in a sergeant was the ability to know when to let... heh, to let sleeping dogs lie. And Angua was one of his best. 

“Everything is fine sargeant. Dismissed.” 

“Yessir.” She vanished on quiet feet. 

Ok. He leaned back in his chair. So. Watch committee tomorrow. That would be fine. Plenty of other people to buffer him and Vetinari. Just fine. 

 

The next morning Sam Vimes shaved. But of course he did that every morning. Well. Practically every morning. And then he very deliberately did not pick out anything out of the ordinary to wear. So deliberately that he spent a full five minutes standing in front of his closet looking at the rows of basically identical work uniforms and the horrible dress uniforms. Then he called for Willikins.  

Once he was dressed to Willikins’ neat standards, he headed down to the watchhouse for the morning report. 

‘Anything new, Fred?’ he asked Sergeant Colon, who was coming off night shift as duty sergeant. 

“No sir.” 

“Damn.” 

“There was a death in New Cobbler’s last night.” 

“Oh?” Vimes perked up. “Am I needed there urgently to investigate?” 

“No sir. Clear cut case of suicide. Bloke did something to Sydney ‘The Chopper’ Stokes’ daughter that she didn’t want. Open and shut case. Suicide.” 

Vimes nodded, disappointed. Suicide by unwise choice was a common and accepted cause of death. Certainly no mystery to take up his morning. 

Gloomily he gathered up his papers and headed for the palace. There was an overturned cart on Broad Way, and Vimes approached, hoping that in the inevitable ensuing argument someone might get stabbed. But two constables were already on the scene, and the carters involved were displaying an unusual, for Ankh Morpork even susipicious, level of calm and equanimity about the whole affair. 

Despite his best efforts, Vimes arrived at the palace on time. 

The Oblong Office was empty when he arrived, save for Vetinari, seated at his desk. Vimes halted in the doorway. “Where is everyone?” 

“Ah, do come in Sir Samuel. It appears that we are going to be the only attendees today. Mr. Spackly has sprained his elbow, Miss Peasbody is watching her nephew, Mr. Taylor had an unfortunate incident with a grape, Mrs. Leopold is home with a cold, and,” he consulted a paper in front of him, “Mr. Crowley had to do urgent care for his potted plants.” *

[ *The watch committee, like all of the Patrician’s committees, was made up of the most vocal critics of the watch, on the basis that it kept them engaged and made them feel useful, which is an intoxicating feeling guaranteed to keep difficult people out of all kinds of trouble. Jeremiah Spackly wrote weekly letters complaining that watch training wasn’t a patch on the training you got in the regiments, Simone Peasbody considered the copper’s bell to be a violation of her neighborhood association’s noise pollution regulations, Forthwith Taylor was the kind of man who objected to non-humans on the force, Delilah Leopold considered that the watch was too military in its approach and advocated a “restorative” approach to crime, and Anthony Crowley was on several of the Patrician’s more fractious committees because he appeared to enjoy the chaos almost as much as Vetinari, and he took excellent minutes, which freed up the clerks for other work. ]

“Well in that case, I’ll just go and…” 

“Sit  _ down _ , Commander,” Vetinari said, not sharply but so firmly that Vimes obeyed, teeth gritted. He lifted his voice. “Drumknott.” 

The clerk materialized. “Yes, my lord?” 

“You may take your tea break now.” 

“Yes my lord.” He vanished again through the door. 

Vetinari shuffled papers on his desk. Vimes absolutely did not look at his long, nimble fingers. “I have a report that a visitor to our fine city was assaulted without provocation in Elm street by two old ladies with… oh dear. Crochet hooks. He demands the watch bring them to justice.” 

Vimes relaxed a little. He was on stable ground here. “Yessir. Mistaken identity sir. Mistook himself for someone not provocative, sir.” 

“As yes. Very good, Commander. I commend your thorough policing, as ever. And according to this report, staff at the free hospital think he is likely to regain his full hearing within six months. No harm done, then.” 

“Sir.” 

“I see here that the new traffic directors are causing twice the usual amount of vehicular congestion.” 

“It’s people stopping to argue with them, sir.” 

“Ah, the civic minded impulse of our good citizenry. I have no doubt they will adapt in due time. Was there anything else, Commander?” 

“No sir.” 

Vetinari steepled his fingers. “Sir Samuel, it seems we don’t see much of you these days.” 

Oh gods. “Just giving others a chance to excel, sir.” Vimes stared fixedly at the window ledge and the sliver of blue sky beyond it. 

“Half of good leadership is good delegation, certainly. But I wonder, ahem. If there is something we ought to discuss.”

“Sir.” 

“We are not currently being overheard.”

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. 

Vetinari sighed. “Vimes, my priority, as always, is the functioning of this city. The… incident happened thirty years ago, for me. It is a long way away, and not relevant in any way to my current life, except insofar as it is rendering one of my best officers entirely useless to me.” 

Vimes was too paralyzed even to bristle at “entirely useless” - they were actually  _ talking _ about it, oh gods, oh  - 

“It doesn’t  _ matter _ to me, Vimes,” Vetinari said sharply. 

“Sir,” he managed. He felt lightheaded. 

Vetinari regarded him sourly. “While I realize that considering outcomes is not always your strong suit, I have always admired your ability to overcome a bad decision through sheer force of will. May I suggest that you apply the skill here?”

“Sir.” He stared at a point on the wall behind Vetinari’s head. If he glared at it hard enough, possibly he could start a fire which would bring the whole palace down around them. The Times was always saying that there was no such thing as mysterious spontaneous combustion, but hope was a treasure. 

“Nothing has changed, commander,” Vetinari said sharply. “Or rather, nothing need change. I am more than willing to put this episode behind us.”

“Yessir,” Vimes gritted out. 

“Very good. Don’t let me detain you.”  

 

Commander Vimes staggered out, looking ill, and Vetinari folded his hands on his desk. 

He had told the truth, or at least part of the truth. He found that it was often a useful strategy. It upset people and put them off their guard. It had certainly upset Sam Vimes, and that was very interesting. 

That night in the cemetery, Vetinari had been shaken but somehow unsurprised at the revelation of John Keel’s true identity. And yet, it had indeed been so many years ago. The urgent passions of youth no longer troubled him, and their memories had also lost acuity with the passage of time. When he thought about that night, he remembered vivid visual flashes, but he wasn’t sure how much of that he had constructed over the years from his own replayed imaginings, which had admittedly entertained him sometimes since when the crossword was less challenging than usual and he needed some other kind of relaxation. 

Yes, he had enjoyed going to bed with Keel. (Hard to think of him as Vimes, even now, after the mental habit of thirty years. Although he knew better than anyone how dangerous mental habits could be.) The man had been fascinating, a brilliant tactical mind in a thug’s body, a mystery out of nowhere, who seemed to understand the pulse of his city in a way that, at 18, had made his trousers tight. 

He looked across the room at the Thud board, on the table by the window. Light glinted off the trolls’ heads. He’d always had a weakness for a certain kind of mind. Perhaps the incident in Twinkle Street would have more power over him if it had been the only one of its kind, but it was not. 

It was so long ago. Sometimes, on bad days when he could barely remember a time he hadn’t had the throbbing, mouldering, screaming weight of the city on his shoulders, it felt like it had happened to another person. 

And that was the crux of it,  _ time _ . One didn’t stay patrician of Ankh Morpork without concerning oneself with the psychology of the individual. And, while Vetinari, 30 years ago, had made an impulsive and ill-fated proposition to a stranger from Pseudopolis, Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, His Grace the Duke of Ankh, married to Lady Sybil, who Vetinari privately considered to be the only noblewoman in the city worth marrying, had gone to bed,  _ less than a month ago _ with a youth he had clearly recognized. Vetinari remembered his own consternation at Keel’s apparent familiarity with him. It now made perfect sense. 

It was rare that something truly confounded Vetinari. And yet, if he had been asked to guess how Vimes would react in the situation he had inadvertently created, Vetinari would have said with utter certainty, that the commander would have been mortified but firm, and rejected him with whatever excuse came first to mind. He remembered his impression at the time, that Keel was not inexperienced with other men, although he had been faithful to his wife for many years, and also that she was probably the open-minded and understanding sort. Now, seeing the full picture at last, he almost smiled to himself at how correct he had been about the wife, and yet how incredibly deeply he had miscalculated on the whole. 

And yet, it had not been the kind of miscalculation that earns one a black eye after an injudicious proposition. The dregs of memory flicked up a few choice moments that he had replayed in his mind enough times to become indelible. Firmly he dismissed them, but sat, feeling, as he only very rarely felt, the intense and suffocating loneliness of office. There was no one in the whole Disc alive now, who could act as a confidant*. He was not by nature a person who needed a listening ear. He would not have ended up where he was, if he had been. Still, his boot bumped the empty dog basket beneath his desk, and he closed his eyes briefly. 

After about fifteen seconds, if anyone had been counting, he opened them, called for Drumknott, and the day continued. 

[ *Lady Margolotta was not technically alive, but in any case, she had been intrigued enough by Sam Vimes that Vetinari saw no reason to add to her fascination. ]

 

Carrot talked about the Underground Music Festival for a whole week. At which point Vimes sent him to the palace for the watch committee meeting. 

After that, a particularly nasty double murder in Dolly Sisters had to be explained to the Patrician, but Angua was the ranking officer on that case and a well spoken young lady so he sent her. 

A few days later, he was informed he had an appointment with Lord Vetinari to speak about concerns by the Campaign For Equal Heights, and he tried to send Cheri but she glared at him until he relented and sent Corporal Mik Mikelson instead, who had been late to duty several days in a row and deserved a disciplinary action in any case. 

Then Vetinari wanted a report on the increasing influx of slide, a new troll drug coming through Chrysoprase’s networks, but Detritus was the head of the drug trafficking unit, and anyway it was speciesist to decide trolls couldn’t make official reports just because they weren’t good at long words.  

 

“Sam,” Sybil said, one evening after Sam had been put to bed. The baby was almost two months old and it shocked Vimes every day how much he had grown already. “Havelock came by this afternoon.” 

Vimes sat bolt upright in the overstuffed armchair by the fireplace. “What?” 

“He came by to have a chat about you.” 

Ice and fire coursed through Vimes’ blood. “What’d he say?” 

“He’s worried about you, Sam. He said you’d been avoiding him for the last month, and he’s afraid that it’s interfering with your work.” 

“I haven't been avoiding him,” Vimes mumbled unconvincingly. 

“You know I’ve thought for some time that you have a very.. Intense connection to Havelock.”

“What! No I don’t. Well. Intense. I mean, I despise the man, most of the time…”

“And,” Sybil continued, staring into the middle distance and speaking over him. “I remember that one time when I told you about myself and Angelique Adrieux, the Genuan exchange student at school, and  _ you _ told  _ me _ about the visiting constable from Quirm and that time with the neighbor after your mum died, and when you…” 

“Ok ok ok, yes I remember,” Vimes interrupted him. “But none of that was important, Sybil. You’re the most important thing in my life. Well, you and Young Sam.” 

Finally she focused on him and gave him a weak smile, before looking back at her knitting. Needles clacked. “Sam…” Sybil ventured, her voice more tentative than before. “I just wanted to say… I know I haven’t been… the last couple of months… It was such a difficult birth, and always looking after Young Sam and whatnot… I know we haven’t been. Well. I’d understand if you were feeling… unsatisfied.” She was resolutely not looking at him. “And Havelock is a handsome man, I’ve always thought. But if it’s interfering with your work…” 

Vimes swallowed his gape-mouthed shock and the immediate urge to throttle Lord Vetinari. The beast howled under his ribs but he kicked it back. If he had learned anything, it was that the dark alleys of married life could not be met with the same skills he had acquired in the less metaphysical dark alleys of life. Instead he pushed himself out of his chair and slid to his knees beside Sybil. “Never. Sybil, never. I don’t care what we can and can’t do together, or that your body is different after Sam. None of that would ever make me look twice at someone else. You are so beautiful. I don’t care about any of it. And I would never,  _ ever _ cheat on you and  _ certainly _ not with Havelock Vetinari!” He let his voice rise with certainty to cover the fact that it was a bald lie. But it hadn’t  _ felt _ like cheating. There was never a moment when he thought Sybil was anything but beautiful, more beautiful than ever when she was huge and glowing with pregnancy, and afterward, soft and fat and happy with Young Sam in her arms, he wanted nothing besides her, wanted never leave her side. The… thing hadn’t been about her at all. 

She gave him a watery smile. “I love you, Sam.” 

His heart pulsed painfully. “I love you too.” He rested his head against her knees, and felt her fingers settle in his hair. 

 

Vimes charged into the Oblong Office and slammed both fists down on the table. “How dare you? How dare you come to my house and speak to my wife? You had no right to talk to Sybil behind my back. About any of it! Do you know what she said to me? She said that because we hadn’t been…” 

“Ahem.” There was a quiet cough behind him. He turned. “Ah. Mr. de Worde. And Mr. Goodmountain. And Miss Cripslock, I see. I’ll just go… wait outside then.” 

“Very good,” said Vetinari. “Do go on, Mr. de Worde. I am agog to hear about your idea for a civic policy correspondent.” 

Sitting on the uncomfortable bench outside, like a naughty schoolboy outside the headmaster’s office, Vimes’ rage had time to be slowly consumed by mortification. In front of de Worde, of all people, whose curiosity once roused knew no bounds. And Sacharissa Cripslock, who since she’d gotten married had added a keen sense for innuendo to her already aggressive journalistic portfolio. Of course, there was nothing for them to find. No one in the whole world knew anything except himself and the Patrician, and, possibly, his wife, and in any case, it was thirty years out of date (for some people, a treacherous part of his mind whispered). Nevertheless, he felt the creep of the the adulterer’s perpetual paranoia, hot and bitter as bile. 

The door clicked behind him and he jerked around. Drumknott ushered out the newspaper people, and Miss Cripslock made directly for him. “Commander Vimes,” she began, “I wonder if,” but Vimes was already on his feet. “So sorry, Miss Cripslock, can’t keep his lordship waiting,” and ducked behind Drumknott and into the office before she could protest. 

The door clicked behind him, and Lord Vetinari looked up from the copy of the newspaper on his desk. “Drumknott, you may go. Take your tea break.” 

“Yes, my lord.” The clerk backed out of the room. 

“Do you know…” Vimes began, but Vetinari held up a hand. His head was cocked as if listening for something. Vimes heard nothing, but after a moment, the Patrician nodded for him to continue. Fuming, he drew breath for another run-up at anger. “Do you know what my wife said to me last night?” It was more of a shout than a bellow this time, but it’s hard to be properly enraged on the third go. “Do you?”

“I certainly do not.” 

“A certain someone came round for tea and they had a little chat, and implied that you were worried about our working relationship. And Sybil,” he drew a breath of rage, “She said that she knew her body wasn’t what it used to be, and was  _ sorry _ if I wasn’t  _ satisfied _ .” 

“Oh dear.” Vetinari’s brow furrowed. “It was not my intention to…” 

“No, it was your intention to manipulate me into coming down here. Well, here I am. I hope whatever you had to say to me was worth it.”

“Very well.” The patrician folded his hands in front of him. “I want you to consider carefully what I have to say. You and I, Commander, are part of the machine of the city. Even all those years ago, I knew that it was not in my best interest to let anyone from Ankh Morpork see the… inner workings of my personal machinery as it were.” His voice was silky over the syllables, and Vimes felt himself flushing at the word  _ personal. _ “I calculated without all the data, obviously. You have been avoiding me out of embarrassment and anxiety for the same reason - you showed me, inadvertently at the time I am sure, a part of your own inner mechanism that I imagine you wish you had not revealed. So both of us are at a disadvantage which we had not anticipated.” 

Vimes glared. The Patrician didn’t seem to notice. 

“Consider, if you will, an alternative. Rather than being uniquely vulnerable individuals who are suddenly threatening to one another, imagine that we are instead two complex mechanisms inside the same machine, who cannot threaten one another except by malfunction. Knowing a little more than anticipated about the function of a counterpart does not threaten anything because both parts have the interest of the machine at heart. Do you follow me, Sir Samuel?”

“Yes,” Vimes said slowly. “And I think it’s a load of tosh, but you’re right that the city ought to be our first priority.” 

“Very good. I see that you are more coherent when you are angry with me.”

“Talking to Sybil was uncalled for!” 

“But effective. Do convey my apologies to her. She really is an inimitable woman, and I do not like to cause her distress.” 

“Distress like propositioning her husband, you mean,” Vimes bit out.

Vetinari raised one eyebrow in a perfect, slow arch and Vimes felt his stomach drop. “I never asked you to be my lover. I asked John Keel.” 

Taking a deep breath, Vimes gave himself a moment to adjust to the sound of the word “lover” in Vetinari’s mouth, and another moment to steel himself for what he was about to say. “You’re right. I shouldn’t’a done that. It was unfair to you, and bloody stupid of me.”

“Well.” There was no trace of it in his face, but the infinitesimal pause told Vimes he had surprised Vetinari. It had been a pleasure to read open emotion on young Vetinari’s face, but it was a different kind of pleasure to know him so well now. “Apology accepted. And let me say how much I appreciate your willingness to address a challenge.” 

“What challenge would that be sir?” 

“Indeed. You may go now, Commander. I’ll see you this week at the watch committee meeting.” Vimes headed toward the door and Vetinari called after him, “Oh and I’m quite looking forward to watching the committee decipher Detritus’ report on slice, so bring a copy to the meeting.” Vimes’ hand was on the doorknob when he added, quite softly, “Please.” 

“Oh no you don’t!” Vimes whirled around, “You  _ don’t _ get to say please. Ye gods, as if you needed another damn way to get everything you want from me.”

Even as he spoke Vimes wondered,  _ everything he wants from me? _ But Vetinari just looked at him blankly, and then said, “Quite right. I apologize.”

“Don’t start apologizing,” Vimes roared. “It’s as bad as saying please!”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow. What’s wrong with common manners, Commander?” 

“And don’t act stupid,” he growled. “It’s just a way of playing the same game. Well, you’ve got me there. I haven’t been able to say no to you since you were 18, clearly. Well bloody good for you, but if you want a working relationship, you don’t get to use… bedroom talk!”  _ Did I really just say that to his lordship?  _ Vimes wondered.  _ I must be going starkers. _ “Er. I mean…” 

Vetinari’s mouth quirked, and Vimes realized that it was amusement, and also that he was being allowed to see it. “Don’t let me detain you, Vimes.” 

Walking out into the warm, rank air of the city, Vimes reflected that life was a miracle, and the biggest miracle of all was being  _ still alive. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sam and Vetinari are so close to my heart. Leave a comment and tell me what you think!


End file.
